


Hanabi

by thecountessolivia



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Christmas, M/M, Some kind of ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-09-15 17:35:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16937682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecountessolivia/pseuds/thecountessolivia
Summary: Fireworks, Christmas, conversations about the nature of memory.





	Hanabi

**Author's Note:**

> Repost from last night

After dinner, they filled up the thermos, wrapped themselves up against the cold and walked out of the house. They left all the lights on behind them.

They made their way through the garden and out into the wilderness beyond. They reached the edge of the bluff and stood shoulder to shoulder, gazing over the black water, over the clear new night.

Will looked back at the house: safely within reach, it glowed like a beacon of warmth and familiarity in the darkness that had poured itself over the cliffs. For a moment, he could almost picture himself and Hannibal moving inside its walls: two silhouetted human catastrophes who now cooked, talked, fucked and slept together through the endless mellow flow of days. That this life was real and his own filled him with a sense of dizzying improbability.

"Will, look."

He turned at the sound of Hannibal's voice.

He hadn't heard the start of the show: the wind and the roar the ocean had muted its crackle and pop. Far off in the distance, the sky above the mainland began to burst and bloom with kaleidoscopes of light. Will stared ahead, momentarily transfixed. The childish awe he'd always felt at the spectacle was irrepressible.

"Had no idea they did this here on Christmas day."

"It's an old tradition in this part of the world," Hannibal said, barely audible above the wind. He moved to stand behind, arm loosely slung about Will's waist. "And a welcome reprieve from the shorter days."

“Do you remember your first fireworks?” Will asked.

“Distinctly. When I was six, my father took me to see the New Year’s display in Vilnius. We did not stay for more than a few moments.”

“Why didn’t you?”

Hannibal’s chin came to rest on Will’s shoulder. “My father found the racket disagreeable. It was only later I realised that his memories of the war must have made him react adversely to the flash and noise. I remember my displeasure at being dragged away from the park.”

“Still, at least you understood his reasons. In the end.”

“True. But his traumas were his own and he shouldn’t have denied me a simple childhood pleasure on their account.”

Will almost laughed. PTSD was no excuse for depriving young Hannibal Lecter of his due delights. He tried to picture that boy of six, in a flat cap and a tiny version of an adult’s winter coat: pale sharp face, serious even then, illuminated by bouquets of light. He glanced back furtively and saw some semblance of that image: the distant multi-colored strobe smoothed out Hannibal’s creases of age and made him look almost childlike.

He leaned back into the solid bulk of Hannibal’s body and breathed in the steam from his mug. It brimmed with one of Hannibal’s festive inventions: rooibos, local citrus, muscovado and plenty of dark rum. It did its job: like Hannibal's closeness, it kept him warm.

“And after that? After Vilnius."

“Not until I moved to Paris. Every July without fail, my aunt held firework parties at my uncle’s estate. They reminded her of the summer displays common in her homeland.” Hannibal kissed the spot just behind Will’s ear, lips warm and wet from the drink. “Those were happy nights for her, and for me as well. She taught me much about being a good host. I remember learning from her the Japanese word for fireworks. I found it exceptionally beautiful.”

Will nuzzled closer, bracing against the wind. “What’s the word?”

“Hanabi," Hannibal said. "It means fire flower. What about you?”

“Usual fourth of July stuff at fairgrounds and tailgate parties. Even though we moved around a lot, my dad always found somewhere we could watch the show. And I always got a hot dog.”

"I'm afraid I can't supply you with one this evening."

Will grinned. "Can't or won't?"

For a reply, he got a gentle nip on his earlobe. He squirmed and elbowed Hannibal lightly in the ribs. "Stop that."

In the distance, half a dozen flares twirled up into the cloudless heavens and disintegrated into glittering spheres. It occurred to Will that in some moment of their respective youths or childhoods the two of them might have stood under the same sky, faces turned up to watch the darkness split open with light.

The final glitter ball exploded over the ocean in a champagne fizz of golden light. Then all was blackness, wind, and ocean roar. Will pictured the hot firework embers plunging like comet shards into the cooling dark embrace of the ocean, and smiled.

They drained their mugs. The wind was getting the better of them. They locked arms and began to make their way back slowly, towards the light.

\-----

Will was instructed to set the table for dessert and to pour the wine. He did so quickly, to give himself more time to watch the theatre of Hannibal moving about the brightly lit kitchen.

"Panettone with candied citrus and brandy cream," Hannibal said, "followed by blood orange sorbet to cleanse our palates for the night. Simple fare, but dinner was indulgent enough.”

Will picked invisible crumbs off the counter. "Did you ever imagine we'd be doing this?" he asked, too impulsively by far.

"Eating panettone with brandy cream?"

Will gestured vaguely about the kitchen, the house, the warmth and safety of it all. “This.”

Hannibal watched him for a moment from across the island, whisk poised in hand. "Present imaginings about our future states almost never divine what comes to pass. Ten years ago, I could never have predicted meeting you. And after I did, I could not have envisioned that we would arrive at our current state of equilibrium.”

Will held back a laugh. Equilibrium. Not only had they managed not to kill each other since Dolarhyde, they were about to share the fifth course of their second Christmas dinner together. The absurdity of it all refused to let him be.

"It's just— all of this feels so easy.” Too easy, he'd wanted to say. "Don't you ever find it hard to tether what we've got here to _how_ we got here?"

Hannibal stopped whisking and trailed a dollop of cream over the edge of the shiny copper bowl. "I do not. On the contrary, I see it as a fair prize for the efforts we invested into adapting and evolving our two natures."

"Efforts—" Will did laugh then. "I'm about to have cake with the man who tried to saw open my skull."

A silence descended. Almost immediately, Will regretted his words.

Eyes downturned, Hannibal returned to his task. "You're in a very reflective mood tonight," he said at last.

"Guess most people are, come the end of the year," Will muttered from behind his wine glass. It sounded vague and evasive even to his own ears. "Aren't you?"

"Many of our shared memories are too precious for me to ruminate over. I prefer to let them be." Hannibal finished plating their dessert and stepped closer. There was caution in his advance. He stopped just out of reach. "Does your past trouble you so much?"

"My past? You mean our past. The past you gave me."

The words tumbled out of Will, too quickly again. It wasn't where he'd intended to go with this. He'd wanted understanding, and Hannibal had denied it to him.

"Our memories aren't static things," Hannibal said carefully. "They are not moored and distant ships to be viewed from the shore of the present. When we retrieve them, we mould them into narratives that support our present sense of self."

Will couldn’t shake the sudden swell of melancholy. He took a swig from his glass. The wine wasn't meant for gulping: too cold and sweet, it burned its way down his throat. "Every retrieval I make feels like an erosion. The waves of recall lick away at the bluff my memory. it's like— my narrative’s got a fissure in it."

He wanted so much for Hannibal to touch him, but Hannibal stood still, observant and wary.

"Do we have a problem, Will?"

Will shook his head hard. He felt on the verge of tears. "I just— look back sometimes and find that the path's grown over. That's all. But I know why I'm here. I _know_."

Hannibal did reach for him then, a hand laid gently on Will's shoulder. Will swayed into the touch and was gathered into an embrace.

They lingered there, locked loosely together, for a long moment. Will's breath deepened against Hannibal's shoulder. The ache in his heart uncoiled by degrees. 

"We must all pay a price for a stable sense of self," Hannibal murmured, stroking over his hair. "We'll continue talking about this. But for now: will you come sit with me?"

Will nodded into the dark of Hannibal's closeness. 

They sat down, facing each other, flanked by candle light. Will stared into his plate, chipping away panettone crumbs with his fork.

"What did you mean when you said some of our shared memories were too precious for you to ruminate over?"

Hannibal was silent for a moment. "Neurologically speaking, a truly uncorrupted memory can reside only in the mind of an amnesiac." 

Will stared up at him.

"You too, then," he said quietly.

Hannibal nodded once. "Like you, I fear the eroding forces of recall."

"Hell of a price to pay, denying yourself access to pleasant memories just to keep them from spoiling in the palace of your mind."

Hannibal's gaze remained downcast. The candlelight wasn't as kind as the fireworks had been: it licked into the creases of time gathered around his eyes and mouth. "Precious doesn't always mean pleasant," he said quietly.

Will's heart twisted again, this time at the faint note of strain in his voice. 

They passed the rest of their meal in silence, and the only sound was the wind whipping at the infinite darkness outside their walls.

**Author's Note:**

> WIPs aside (which I am committed to finishing), this is my last Hannibal fic. 
> 
> Happy Christmas.


End file.
